


Of Signs and Erring Stars [discontinued]

by windsweptfic



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Altered States, Alternate Universe, Experimentation, M/M, Prostitution, drugged states, dub-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one notices if a prostitute goes missing, and sometimes deals with the devil don't require your consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is originally from a [prompt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/1123.html?thread=774499#t774499) at LJ's norsekink community. This story...doesn't really follow the prompt all that much. It goes off on a tangential conspiracy plot instead.
> 
> The fourth incarnation of the [Masters of Evil](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masters_of_Evil#Baron_Helmut_Zemo) feature in this pretty heavily. It does involve prostitution, so there are definite issues of non-con versus dub-con, so proceed accordingly.
> 
> All love and awe and cookies go to **[cinaea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea)** , without whom this story would have been ignored and left to forever languish in forgotten dusty death. <3

"Please don't make me do this."

Bill snorts and reaches over to grab hold of Clint's chin in an ungentle grip, tilting his head up to get a better look at him beneath the streetlight. Clint knows that Joyce did a good job covering the bruises from his last client, who had seemed to want more of a sparring partner than someone to fuck, but the puffiness around his left eye is still prominent. He winces as Bill's fingers dig into his cheeks, but keeps his hands motionless at his sides.

"Five thousand for one night," Bill repeats. It's the only thing he's talked about since he got the call. "They won't do anything permanent, we'll be five grand richer, and I'll even let you have the rest of the week off."

Clint grimaces. There is no 'we' about it; he'll probably only see a few hundred of the money Bill will rake in tonight. But the possibility of four days off is almost worth it, even if Bill is notorious for breaking his promises.

"Do you know how many?" he asks, glancing up at the imposing building. It's as large as an apartment complex but it's not near any kind of housing developments, hidden away along the river in a decrepit neighborhood long-since abandoned. The entire thing screams 'snuff film' and Clint's honestly not sure if he considers that such a bad fate anymore.

Bill shrugs in reply. "Four or five, maybe? I don't know, I didn't bother asking."

And Clint's lip curls because no, of _course_ he didn't.

"All they said was to send over someone with endurance, and that's you."

Bill grins at him, the gold tooth in his mouth glinting. The desire to punch him simmers dully in Clint's blood like it always does, part of him still defiant to the last, but he doesn't act on it. He just nods, briefly, and turns to walk up the steps.

"You blow this job," Bill calls, "And you'll be on your back for the next two months. You get me?"

The threat falls like a knife between Clint's shoulders, images from his last punishment flashing like electricity through his mind. He'd been tied wrists and ankles to a bed for so long he'd gotten pressure sores on his back; a never-ending file of people doing to him what they wanted, invited to use him as a freebie with their purchase. The only time he'd gotten to eat was when Joyce had a break in her own schedule, tiptoeing into his room with soup to feed him by hand. When Bill finally deemed him sufficiently disciplined, he'd only had a few days to recover before being thrown back into his regular schedule.

Clint swallows hard.

"I understand."

At least there are lights on in the building, shining dimly through heavy drapes. He wipes his hands on his pants before knocking on the door, mouth dry—he can't remember the last time he felt this nervous. Maybe his first trick, when he was fourteen and desperate for cash; or maybe when that high-profile john wanted him for a night of absolute secrecy.

After a few moments the door opens, and Clint blinks as a beautiful black-haired woman smiles at him, leaning against the door jamb sensuously. She's wearing a green, tiara-like wrap in her hair and a black leather outfit, and Clint's stomach twists; because he'd been hoping against hope that he wouldn't be subjected to too many kinky fetishes tonight. Fucking Bill, anyway.

"Well, you're too pretty to be the pizza boy."

"No, ma'am," he agrees, flashing her a winning smile. He slips into the role like a second skin, shoulders loosening, the tension draining outwardly from his body, leaving him relaxed and confident. And he is, to an extent—he's good at what he does. He's certainly had enough time to figure it all out.

The woman laughs, reaching out to brush her fingertips across his jaw. They ghost over the bruises like she knows they're there beneath the makeup, and when Clint looks into her eyes he sees something dark beneath the almost glowing-green irises. Soft warmth spreads from his temples to the rest of his body and he's frozen, staring back at her in a daze. The world fades into something fuzzy and distant, all of his attention drawn to her striking green eyes.

"Follow me, pet," she coos.

Clint does. 

It's like floating, walking after her into the building, captivated by the sway of her hips and the fall of hair down her back. She leads him to a large room with a crackling fireplace, soft carpet beneath his worn shoes, and when she touches the back of his neck, he sinks to his knees without complaint, smooth and graceful as an acrobat.

Through his foggy vision he can register other presences in the room: a man stands near the fireplace, a sword buckled at his hip and an odd hood pulled over his face, tight against the lines of his features. Another woman lounges in a cushy armchair, blond and beautiful and seeming to radiate some kind of energy that encompasses everything. A large, burly man paces the room, clad in a suit that stretches across his shoulders.

"The subject is here, Baron Zemo," the dark-haired woman announces, and Clint can't help but notice how lovely the words sound, falling from her lips. She has extraordinary lips, full and luscious but with a hard edge that keeps her face from softening at all. "I have him under my control."

"Very good, Black Mamba," says the man by the fireplace, turning to look Clint over. Only his eyes are visible and they are cold, callous, and would send a shiver down Clint's spine if he wasn't too busy drifting on lazy warmth. 

"Well, at least he looks like he'll last longer than the other ones," the other man rumbles. He walks over to peer at Clint, reaching down to grasp a fistful of hair and pull his head back. A judicious thumb rubs across his cheek, wiping away the makeup concealing his bruises. It hurts, but that's nothing new.

The man looks at him intently for a moment, and then pulls back his arm and backhands him sharply across the face.

Clint pitches to the side, landing hard on his elbow from the force of the blow. The bitter taste of iron fills his mouth and he thrashes against the green haze keeping him trapped, a snarl on his lips as he glares up at the man. He starts to push himself to his feet but Black Mamba's hand rests on his shoulder; everything goes limp and pliant, and he slumps docilely back to his knees.

"Strong force of will, as well," she notes. Clint feels a little like a science experiment but can't find it in himself to care.

"Excellent," Zemo replies. "Mister Hyde, take him back to the lab. Moonstone and Black Mamba, figure out the best way to turn him to us."

Something niggles in the back of Clint's mind, some kind of worrying understanding, and he struggles to fight the haze again even as he's lifted from the ground and tossed casually over Hyde's shoulder. It's like trying to move through molasses, slow and draining, but he manages to flail a weak fist at the man's lower back. He catches a surprised look from the blonde before Black Mamba's touch is on him again and everything sinks back into foggy green.

"Strong indeed," Zemo murmurs as he's carried away. 

The rest of the evening passes in a haze, with chunks of black in his memory that Clint knows were taken away on purpose. He remembers needles and syringes; blood flowing out of his body, and unknown drugs flowing in. Fire sears his muscles and he screams himself hoarse and later, lying sweaty with pain and fear on a soft bed, there is scorching pleasure and heated touches and murmurs of 'Well, that's what he's there for.'

He wins coherency from the haze long enough to puke in the bathroom. Then he's forced back under, and can only shout silently in his head as Zemo calls Bill to say that they'll pay for the entire week, and blankly parrots Black Mamba's whispers that he's okay, that he agrees with the new arrangement.

His dreams are spent screaming into a green fog that swallows up his desperate cries.


	2. Chapter 2

A blond, kind-faced man sits on the edge of Clint's bed, looking completely out of place amidst the trappings of the whorehouse. His blue eyes are gentle, and he carries himself in a way that screams 'I want to help people', but he has a belt in his hand and Clint knows this is wrong.

"This wasn't how it happened," he mumbles, watching the man with a frown. A brief flash of someone else, a dark-haired businessman with a cruel smile, overlays the blond's features for a moment before disappearing. He knows this is a memory but it's off, not right, but when he tries to grasp for the truth it floats away just out of reach of his fingertips.

"Come here," the blond orders, sharp tone belying his almost boyish face. 

And Clint obeys, because he's never once refused a client.

He kneels at the man's feet. He _remembers_ this, remembers the burn on his knees, the lines slashed across his back, and nearly suffocating with a hand wrapped around his throat. He'd had bruises and barely been able to swallow for weeks afterward.

"Good boy," the man says approvingly. He combs his fingers through Clint's hair, a deceptively gentle action that doesn't warn nearly enough for what is to come. "You may call me—" _Master Nicholas_ "—Steve. Steve Rogers."

"But...that's wrong," Clint protests weakly, looking up at him. "This isn't— I don't understand—"

The world flickers green and Rogers reaches down to grab hold of Clint's hair, yanking back sharply to expose his throat, and he _knows_ this. This was real. This _is_ real and he can't stop the hand that descends across his face now any more than he could then. 

"Whore," Rogers grits, the word sounding distant through the ringing in his ears. "Get on the bed."

Clint scrambles to do as he's told.

Hours later, after Rogers finishes and leaves him a bruised, shaking mess on the bed, Clint is finally allowed a moment of peace, curling into a ball and letting his eyes slide shut. When he opens them again he's staring at an old tiled ceiling, lying on a soft mattress that would have cost him months of docked pay. He tries to sit up, frantic, but a slim hand smoothes across his bare chest and the panic subsides.

"Bad dreams, my pet?" Black Mamba coos, fingers tracing delicately across his throat. Her eyes are dark and glittering, knowing, and Clint struggles to remember even as the memory fades into wisps of green. All he can recall are sharp fingernails and sharper needles, and the feel of his blood boiling beneath his skin. He struggles against the wooziness that seems to be a now-permanent fixture in his head.

"Let me," he rasps, the words forced like cotton from his tongue. "Let—go—"

Black Mamba looks at him fondly. 

"You really are a treat to have," she comments, nibbling at his ear. "I can't remember the last time I had someone so defiantly stubborn on my leash."

A quick, brisk knock pulls Black Mamba's attention blessedly away, and she climbs off the bed in a graceful movement, sauntering toward the door. She opens it to reveal Zemo, and after a brief, murmured conversation the fog lifts a little, lessening the weight draped over Clint's mind. As she leaves, Zemo looks Clint over with that coolly calculating gaze. 

Clint's naked beneath the blankets and while that wouldn't usually bother him, it does now; it makes him feel stripped, vulnerable. 

"What are you doing to me?" he asks hoarsely.

Zemo shuts the door and seats himself in a cushioned chair by the window, his body silhouetted by what little light shines through the drapes. He rests his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepling his fingers in front of him.

"We are helping you," he replies. Now that he's more coherent, Clint can recognize the German lilt in his voice. "We are making you better. Faster. Stronger. We will tear you down and build you back up, and you will be a beautiful instrument of justice in our hands."

Clint stares at him blankly.

"You're fucking insane."

"I have been called that before," Zemo agrees, voice a shark-like smile.

Clint struggles to push himself up against the headboard of the bed, fighting against the heaviness weighing down his limbs. He wants to pull the sheet with him, to hold on to whatever shreds of dignity and decency he has left, but he doesn't have the strength in him to do it. He fists his hands in the cloth instead, shooting Zemo as much of a glare as he can muster.

"I don't want to be better. Or stronger, or faster, or—whatever you want me to be. I don't want to change or be involved in whatever crackpot scheme you have, so if you think you're helping, try again."

Zemo snorts, his eyes glittering in cold amusement.

"Everyone wants to change who they are," he chides. He gives Clint a long, deliberate look, eyes cataloguing the scratches Moonstone had left on his chest and the bitemark on his shoulder. "Are you really content to live as you do, whoring your body out to whoever can pay?"

Clint flushes angrily, hands tightening in the sheets.

"At least then I can think for myself," he snaps. 

Zemo arches an eyebrow at him. Then he throws back his head, laughing, as he leans against the chair's armrest. The sound is flat, emotionless, and it sends a chill down Clint's spine that he struggles to ignore.

"My dear boy, do you really think you have free will?" Zemo asks. He stands up, and the chill turns to blatant fear; Clint scoots back against the headboard nervously as the man approaches. "When was the last time you went outside without the company of your pimp? The last time you turned down a client's wishes?"

Zemo stops at the edge of the bed and quirks a finger—and Clint obeys the unspoken command, his body moving compliantly even as he grits his teeth, trying to fight against the glittering green haze that controls his movements. The blankets slide from his body as he kneels in front of Zemo on the bed, flushed and afraid and vulnerable.

Zemo reaches out, running one gloved finger down the side of Clint's face before he grips his chin in his hand. 

"Were you really so eager to come to this place to give yourself into the hands of people you didn't know, to use you in any way we liked?" he breathes. Zemo smiles when Clint bites his lip, stroking his face with deceptive gentleness. His touches are light, soft, and his masked face is so very close, dark eyes mesmerizing as Clint stares helplessly back.

"Do you know why you are here, instead of anyone else in this city?" Zemo murmurs. "It is not because you are special. Nor is it that we saw something in you that might make you more amenable to our cause. You were chosen at random, child. You are here because you are no one."

Clint swallows hard, the words falling like blows as Zemo continues, his voice tender. 

"If you were to die, not a soul would miss you. The only one who might care is your pimp, and that is merely because he would lose money."

Zemo leans in, lips brushing against his ear.

"You are nothing, Clint Barton," he whispers.

Clint bites back a broken sound, squeezing his eyes shut as it suddenly becomes hard to breathe. He recognizes the words; he's said them to himself more often than anyone else has—because he knows they're fact. He knows they're true. And all of the defenses he's carefully built around himself in order to stay sane—the flippant attitude, the snark and the easygoing shrug—they all fail him in this place.

"However, in our hands," Zemo continues softly. "In our hands, you will change the world."

Clint sucks in a shuddering breath, his entire body shaking. The mist swirls around him, reinforcing Zemo's words, and tears prick the corners of his eyes as he struggles in one final attempt at escape.

"Please," he whispers. "Please. I don't want this."

Zemo smiles, stroking his fingers through Clint's hair. He cups Clint's face in his palms and kisses him on the forehead, cloth pressed against skin—and when he lets go, Clint crumples to the side like a marionette with its strings cut, collapsing on the soft mattress. Zemo looks down at him with a quirk to his lips.

"You have never had choice in the entirety of your life," he replies as he turns to leave. The door opens before him as Black Mamba sweeps in, her fog wrapping around Clint like a thick blanket as he sinks down into hazy green.

"What makes you think you have any now?"


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, Clint finally begins to understand what they want him for.

He doesn't know how many times Hyde has injected him with some kind of purplish liquid. The treatments all blend together, a blur of agony that burns through his nerves. He's stopped trying to protest or even speak that much, his throat torn raw from his screams.

Black Mamba gives him a small measure of freedom, though it's limited to his room. He can walk around, go to the bathroom, and be otherwise hopelessly trapped, but any time he tries to approach a window or the door the green fog rises up in his mind like a wall. He'll try to put his hand on the doorknob only to wake up hours later, sitting in a chair or lying on the bed, with no memory of what happened in the intervening time.

He's doing push-ups when Moonstone comes for him, trying to work off the energy that's been thrumming through his body. Clint doesn't know if it's from being confined to a single space or if the drugs have been the source; all he knows is that his body has been changing, slowly. Years under Bill's thumb, living on the barest of resources, had left him almost painfully thin, frail and breakable so that he wouldn't be threatening to clients, so that they could use him as they liked. Since he arrived he's been getting three solid meals a day brought to his room, but that isn't enough to explain the increase of muscle mass.

He supposes it's a good thing they've kept him basically naked since he got here; any of his old clothing would have been shredded by now.

Moonstone catches him mid-extension, suspended over one of the books Clint had begged and cajoled and sucked Zemo off to acquire. He looks up just in time to catch sight of a stiletto descending in his vision, his arms buckling beneath him as she rests the ball of her foot on the back of his neck, bearing down _hard_. His cheek mashes against the page as he gets a rat's eye view of the sharp print _'thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing?'_.

"Reading?" Moonstone tsks, weight shifting painfully against his neck. She drags the tip of her boot down his bare spine, slow and grinding. "You're not here for your brains, pet."

Clint stays quiet, still, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from whimpering as she presses on his bruises. After a few moments she chuckles and leans back, tossing a pair of pants at him. Her eyes gleam as she watches him climb to his feet and slowly pull them on. Her gaze always has an amused, predatory feel to it, like a cat watching its prey, occasionally flicking out a claw to bat at its hapless pawn.

"Come," she orders breezily, turning to leave without waiting for him. Clint hesitates briefly, wanting to disobey just for the sake of disobeying, but the mist tightens around his throat. He struggles against it for a few moments before giving in exhaustedly, shoulders slumping as he follows her out. 

She leads him to a large room that once might have been a recreation center, mats spread across the floor and a few simple workout tools—weights, jump rope—in the corner. The rest of his captors are sitting in chairs against the wall and Clint eyes them warily, following Moonstone to the center of the room. She turns back to him.

"Dodge."

And that's all the warning Clint gets before a sharp knife goes sailing through the place his head had just been.

"What the—"

"I suggest saving your breath for more important things," Zemo calls from the sidelines as Clint twists out of the way of a quick stab, leaping backward. Moonstone takes the opportunity to hurl another knife that he dives away from, rolling into a crouch with his heart pounding. Adrenalin thrums through his veins, and his mind flashes briefly back to when he was a child, when he threw himself into sports at school in order to escape the hell at home. Fencing, archery, martial arts—his body remembers them before his brain does as he deflects one of Moonstone's slashes to the side.

Clint defends as Moonstone attacks, not daring to actively fight back as he dodges her blows with an ease he knows he shouldn't have. Whatever the drugs are, they've affected everything—his strength, his reaction time, his agility. But Clint is still panting when they break apart, gulping for air as Moonstone pulls out another knife, sending it spinning toward him.

Without any thought, without taking a moment to comprehend the consequences, Clint snaps his arm out and plucks the knife from midair.

He barely hears the murmurs of approval as he stares at the weapon in his hand. The blade is sleek, sharp; the hilt a dark leather. He weighs it in his palm blankly and, in a moment of stunning, crystal-clear clarity, looks up, something tight and cold in his chest as he looks at Moonstone.

A second later another knife buries itself in his shoulder, and he jerks back with a strangled cry, the weapon dropping from his hand.

"What did you do to me?" Clint rasps as he sinks to his knees, the words barely a whisper as he clutches his shoulder. Wetness slicks his palm, and he can already feel Black Mamba taking control again, but her hold seems somehow tenuous through the throbbing pain. He clings to that, twisting the blade until tears burst in his eyes, keeping his head bowed, listening to his captors speak over him.

"There's a good deal of latent skill to build on," Black Mamba says. "We won't have to start from scratch, as we did with the others. He will be ready sooner than anticipated."

"What about your hold over him?" Zemo asks. 

"Steady enough. He fights it well, but when he faces them the conditioning will take over."

"Excellent."

Hyde crouches down next to Clint, yanking out the knife and callously bandaging him up. He's barely done before soft fingers trail across the back of Clint's neck, and he lets out a soft whine as his body goes limp, slumping to the mats as darkness takes him.

He dreams again of the kind-eyed blond man with the unnaturally cruel demands, others flitting in and out of the space between memory and nightmare. A beautiful redhead who leaves bleeding scratches across his chest with her sharp nails. A well-built, long-haired Adonis who presses his face into the pillow and fucks him mercilessly until he passes out. There's a commanding black man with an eyepatch who leaves him a bruised mess on the floor. A thin scientist-type who flickers between calm and unassuming and bulky and oddly green as he uses Clint as a punching bag. And a familiar man with dark hair and a goatee who forces him to the ground and uses him as a piece of furniture, putting his feet up on Clint's back as he stays on his hands and knees for hours.

They're dreams, and they're memories, and when he wakes again Clint wonders if he's lost the thread of reality to the swirling fog of madness.

He sleeps little after that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[CINAEA](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea)** , bb this is all for you (and because of you, taskmaster). <333
> 
> First update in a looong while, but it is also a loooong chapter, so I hope it evens out.

Clint lays very, very still on the table, his eyes tightly shut as he tries to ignore the spiders crawling through his veins.

The IV in the back of his hand is like an icicle plunged under his skin, radiating pain and cold in sharp shards that ricochet through his body. His blood feels _itchy_ , twisting and writhing in his capillaries in tortured agony; slamming against the walls of his arteries in a desperate attempt to escape the foreign contaminant flooding through them.

The only reason Clint’s body isn't doing the same are the straps keeping him bound tight to the exam table; the only reason he isn't screaming is the rubber gag shoved between his teeth, his cries having been too distracting for Hyde to concentrate on his experiments.

He manages a few broken, muffled whimpers instead.

"The adapted Reinstein-Koch formula remains nowhere near the level of its originally intended potency," Hyde says into a small recorder as he looks at the monitors above Clint's head, fed by the electrodes and leads attached to his naked body. "The necessity of allowing the subject's body to recover requires the dosages be delivered in staggered increments, and while progress is slow, the subject has already taken on a 28% gain in pure muscle mass...."

Clint lets his head loll to the side as his body twitches beneath the restraints, spasmodic and out of his control. Fog edges the corners of his vision but it isn't green—this time. It isn't suffocating or chokingly restrictive; it's just the red-black of pain and exhaustion, with only a verdant tinge at the edges. There's no chance of him escaping—the straps pinning him down are thick Kevlar secured by metal rings—and Black Mamba doesn’t seem to feel the need to keep hold of him when he's bound, when he's beaten down and broken and docile, silently compliant to their every whim.

And Clint has been doing his damnedest to keep appearing that way.

Of course, that isn't exactly hard when he's got Hyde standing over him, poking him with sharp instruments that are barely pinches compared to the pain twisting inside. Clint watches with bleary eyes as a needle sinks beneath his skin, another pockmark in his elbow as blood bubbles up into the syringe.

 _\- "Hyde," -_ Zemo's voice crackles from a communicator left discarded on the medical tray. _\- "Main hall, now." -_

Hyde's brow creases in annoyance. He finishes drawing the blood and lays the filled vial down before picking up the comm.

"I'll be done after I analyze this blood sample—"

_\- " **Now.** " -_

Hyde scowls, but the sharp order in Zemo's voice is unmistakable. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them into the trashbin before stalking out the door, leaving Clint alone with shards of glass grinding sluggishly through his veins. He closes his eyes, swallowing dryly around the gag as he tries to focus on anything else.

The days have become routine, every morning beginning with Hyde administering the injections. Since that first 'demonstration', Clint was confined to the training room, locked away with nothing to do but hone his new skills. Hours of lifting and jump rope and running back and forth like a caged rat are broken only by sparring sessions with one of the four that inevitably leave him bloodied and bruised. He's improving, certainly, but he never dares fight them with everything he has; the concoction that now flows through his veins has changed him, made him faster and stronger just as Zemo promised.

His captors have wasted no time in testing out his new boundaries, either, always pushing him further and further; Clint never seeming to perform to their expectations. Aside from the formula burning his body from the inside-out, he's a mess of cuts and bruises: a palette of colors with new purple-blue layered over old yellow, sharp lines of red and brown slashing across it all. Every muscle screams, every joint aches, and yet he still can’t bring himself to just roll over and die.

And that's why this is still going on, isn't it? He won't give up. He didn't when he was tossed out on the street as a kid, unwanted and adrift. He didn't during all the years he spent selling his body to whoever could pay. He didn't when Bill effectively took away his freedom and he won't now, no matter how his captors push him. He understands now that it's what sets him apart from however many other poor bastards have come before him; it's why he isn't dead now, deemed unfit for whatever end-goal Zemo has in mind.

The irony of having his one strength used against him is not lost on Clint.

"—wasting all that research!"

Clint turns his head toward the door blearily, pulled back to his body at the sound of shouting. The pain crawls back and he lets out a low whine, hoping Hyde will come back and finish so he can go back to the training room and curl up on his too-thin cot.

"—can recreate the effects—"

"—take forever to find another good specimen!"

The shouting grows louder, frantic and hurried, with tones of _fear_ in voices Clint is only ever used to hearing cold and self-assured. It's Hyde and Zemo, and Clint's newly-sensitized hearing picks up the echo of feet pounding on hardwood floors.

"There is _no time_ , we must leave him—they're almost here—"

The voices are outside the door, so close, and Clint tenses—but then they pass, running down the hall. An altogether different dread settles in his stomach as he realizes he's being _left behind_ , abandoned to some new fate that even his captors dread.

"Waie," he mumbles, distorted and garbled through the gag. "Waie!"

But the footsteps keep going, fading fast. Clint's heart pounds in his throat as he hears the sound of wood cracking from the first floor—the front door being broken inward. Unfamiliar voices echo hollowly in his ears as he strains frantically against the straps, the rough material biting into his skin.

Wetness slicks his wrists as he thrashes against his restraints like a caged animal. New footsteps grow louder, closer, and Clint lets out a desperate, hopeless sound as he hears the doors down the hall slam open one-by-one. Trepidation rises in his throat with each crack of splintering wood, and he's nearly choking when the footsteps stop outside of the laboratory. He turns his face away and squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

The door crashes open.

"Oh my _god_ —"

"Captain—"

Clint inhales a sharp breath as the straps holding him in place are _torn_ off, metal screeching as the very anchors themselves are yanked out of the table. His eyes snap open and—

_cruel, downturned mouth, angry blue eyes, kind face turned furious, fingers twisting in his hair, unrelenting beat of hips against his ass, too dry, too painful, pleading unnoticed and cries met with more pain_

—he thrashes beneath the remaining restraints with a wordless cry, jerking away as soon as the last of them are gone, falling off the table in his haste to escape. A strangled gasp of pain catches in his throat as he hits the floor, but he doesn't let it stop him, scrabbling backward until his shoulders hit wall, the gag going skittering across the floor when he yanks it off his head. The world swims in and out of focus as he sucks in frantic breaths of air, cold sweat drenching his skin as terror clenches suffocating around his chest.

"...finish sweeping the rest of the building, make sure Stark hasn't destroyed anything, I'll deal with this..."

"Hey, it's okay," says the blond man who freed him, eyes wide and guileless. He's wearing a formfitting outfit of red and white and blue and has a shield in one hand, which he quickly lays down when he sees Clint's eyes focus dazedly on it. "It's okay, we're not going to hurt you."

His voice is achingly kind. Clint wants nothing more than to trust it, but when he looks at the man the only impression he has is pain and suffering, and he lets out a low whimper, curling further against the wall.

"Captain Rogers. It would probably be best if you gave the man some air."

Clint swallows hard as his gaze darts to the owner of the other voice. The man who walks over has an almost serene calm about him, belying the sleek body armor and the pistol in one hand. He holsters it as he nears, looking down at Clint with detached curiosity, stopping near the other man—Rogers—who is partially crouched with his hands half-outstretched beseechingly toward Clint.

_he knows those hands, knows the damage they can do, knows what they feel like digging into his hips and cracking across his mouth_

"It's alright," Rogers soothes, soft and gentle. There's a kind of aching hurt in his eyes that Clint doesn't comprehend, struggling to reconcile his instincts with the earnest tone of the man's voice; the honesty in his gaze. "I promise we're here to help. You don't have anything to be afraid of."

"He's already afraid," the other man murmurs. "Now take a step back and allow him space."

"But, Coulson—"

" _Rogers._ "

Rogers's features twist unhappily, but he does as he's told, standing up and taking a few steps backward, looking for all the world like a chastised puppy. He's far enough away that he can't reach Clint without some kind of warning, and something loosens in Clint's chest with the fact. He looks back at the man Rogers called Coulson, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat as another spasm rocks through his body.

"I'm Agent Coulson," he says. "This is Captain Steve Rogers. We work with the organization known as SHIELD, with the Avengers Initiative. Are you familiar with the Avengers?"

Something resembling recognition glimmers in the back of Clint's mind. SHIELD, Avengers, Steve Rogers. Words from before he knew what it was like to feel ants crawling through his veins. He nods slowly.

Coulson crouches down, wrists on his bent knees, and Clint manages not to flinch. The man's face is stern but not unkind, and he doesn't set Clint's instincts screaming at him to run.

"Captain Rogers and I came here looking for the Masters," Coulson says gently. "Do you know where they are?"

Clint's gaze darts to Rogers for a brief instant—just long enough to send the chill of ice down his spine. He shivers and quickly looks back to the SHIELD agent, licking his lips. He shakes his head, once.

"He's a prisoner, Coulson," Rogers puts in. The disapproval in his voice makes Clint want to disappear into the wall, to flee, and he can't help shuddering. "Can't you see what they— We need to take him back to SHIELD, we need to _help_ him—"

Rogers takes a step forward, and Clint lurches back, fear knotting in his throat. Coulson throws out a hand to halt Rogers's progress, his eyes narrowing just the slightest bit.

"So go find him some clothing," the agent says blandly.

"What? I—oh, _oh_ , right, clothes—"

Rogers takes a few hasty steps backward, keeping his hands in sight as he reaches for his shield. Once it's slung over his back he offers Clint an attempt at a reassuring smile that does absolutely nothing to dispel his unease. As soon as he disappears through the door, Clint feels something loosen in his chest, a disconcerting sense of relief washing over him.

“The Masters were keeping you prisoner here?”

Clint drags his attention back to Coulson. The man doesn’t trigger him like Rogers does, but there’s still something unsettling about him, too calm and too collected to be real. Sharp grey eyes flick over the room, assimilating everything while letting none of his conclusions show.

It takes Clint's mind a second to process the question, and he nods.

Coulson wanders over to Hyde’s equipment, his movements casual and easy, body language relaxed, but Clint knows it's a goddamn lie. Rogers radiated power, and you didn't command someone like that without wielding significant power of your own.

At least Zemo and the rest never tried to hide how easily they could break him.

“They were injecting you with this?” the man asks, picking up one of the vials of pinkish fluid that was the bane of Clint’s mornings. The memory of all those days, all the needles and hours spent writhing in pain makes him shudder; an echoing ripple from his most recent injection biting down his spine as he forces a nod.

“Do you know what it is?”

_'...making you better. Faster. Stronger.'_

Clint swallows, staring at Coulson mutely.

What _is_ running through his body, now? What have they done to him? All he knows for sure are the changes that have happened--not the ones that will. He might end up like Zemo, hiding behind a mask for the rest of his life--or Hyde, twisted and grotesque; admittedly powerful, but still mutated and obscene. Clint can feel their poison attacking his body even now, burning him up from the inside-out, and the look in Coulson's eyes is _too much_. He _knows_ , somehow; knows what's happening, knows what Clint could turn into and what he could become, and Clint's eyes dart frantically toward the door--maybe he can escape before he's put down like a rabid dog--

"So, what's your name?"

Clint shakes off the glaze of terror to refocus on Coulson, disoriented as his panicked thoughts derail. The man has put away the vial and is walking toward him, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, gait slow and unhurried. His features are expectant without demanding, a question without the threat of punishment, and for once Clint _wants_ to answer. He licks his lips and opens his mouth, but when his voice comes out it's low and raspy and not nearly as strong as he wanted.

"Clint," he manages.

Coulson smiles encouragingly. “Hello, Clint,” he says, and Clint can’t remember the last time his name was said with such kindness. "My name is Phil."

Coulson glances around at the floor for a moment before dropping down, settling himself neatly on the chill tile and leaning back against a leg of the exam table. Clint eyes him suspiciously, tense and wary.

"So, Rangers or Islanders?"

Clint blinks, disconcerted.

Coulson laughs at the expression, but it isn't without kindness. It’s a nice sound, soft and wry; nothing like Black Mamba’s sly giggle or Zemo’s cold chuckle. “Just making sure you were still in there," he says.

Clint's lips twitch up of their own accord, and he's too tired to smother the expression. He tilts his head, resting his cheek on his forearm as he looks at the other man.

"Still here," he says softly.

Coulson grins and its like the sun coming out from behind the fucking clouds. Clint wants to hate the reflexive warmth that comes from pleasing people, from pleasing this man who could end his life with a word, but it's been too long since he's been good enough, since someone's been happy with him, that he just soaks in the feeling for a moment.

A fresh wave of pain steals the breath from Clint's lungs, dousing the heady warmth. He digs his fingernails into his knees as he struggles to remember how to inhale, a stifled, choked whine escaping his lips. He doesn't want to show weakness but his lungs are trying to escape through his throat and it _hurts_ , pain clawing up his sternum as he rocks helplessly back and forth in an attempt to escape the war waging inside his body.

He can't tell how much time passes, trying to ride out the waves of agony. When he's capable of breathing again, and the roaring in his ears fades, he makes out the sound of his name, called in a tone soft and concerned and achingly gentle.

"Clint?"

Clint lifts his head, eyes swollen, to look at Coulson. The man's only a yard away but he's _staying_ there, on his knees, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists against his thighs.

"Clint, we can help you," Coulson says. "I think I know what's been done to you; there might be a way to stop it. Will you come with us? Let us try to help, please."

Clint squeezes his eyes shut as another spasm rocks through his body, forcing out words between punched, gasping breaths.

"Just want--want to leave. Don't want... No more tests. No needles, no tests, no..."

"There would be more tests," Coulson admits. At least he's honest. "We have to be sure what they've done to you, and how to fix it. It..." he glances back at the vials, a brief shadow of hesitation flitting across his features. "SHIELD is familiar with the compound that was used on you."

Clint barely has time to process that--SHIELD knows what's been done to him, they might actually be able to keep him from turning into some kind of monster--when he hears the precise staccato of boots approaching. He shies back against the wall as the fear rises in his throat again, and as soon as Coulson sees the movement his eyes widen fractionally in understanding. The agent is up and moving with a speed that Clint wouldn't have suspected of him, given the unassuming appearance, and by the time Rogers appears in the doorway, Coulson's already there to stop him.

"I'll take those, thank you, Captain," Clint hears, spoken quietly and supposedly out of earshot. A frown furrows Rogers's brow, and Clint can't help blanching at the expression.

"I can--"

"Captain," Coulson interrupts, his voice kind but firm. "He's terrified of you."

Rogers's crestfallen look is almost comical.

"But I haven't done anything. I just want to help, Coulson, that's all."

"A very admirable goal," Coulson soothes as he relieves Rogers of a bundle of clothes. His tone gentles. "I'll take care of him, Steve, don't worry."

Rogers looks over Coulson's shoulder, distressed and unhappy, and just having that blue-eyed focus on him has Clint shivering, ducking his head in an attempt to avoid the scrutiny. He only relaxes once he hears the sound of Rogers' footsteps retreating down the hall.

Coulson returns carrying the pile of clothes, stopping at the same spot he'd been before. He lifts them questioningly, waiting until Clint nods before leaning down and sending them sliding across the floor.

And then he turns around.

Clint stares at the man's back for a stunned moment, blankly trying to comprehend the amount of blind trust Coulson's put in him. He looks down his arms, wiry and corded with muscles he didn't previously possess, down to the strong flex of his fingers as he curls his hand into a fist. He looks to Coulson again.

It wouldn't take long to disable him. A few seconds to twist to his feet and cross the distance between them; a few more to grab the gun holstered at his side. The shot would be loud, but he could be gone in the span of time it would take someone to investigate: he's fast, he knows he's fast. Grab the gun and grab the clothes and be gone before anyone notices, before the body's even cold--

The thought makes Clint freeze in place, bile rising bitter in his throat. He looks again at Coulson's back, shoulders set so easy, his pose so patient. He's been nothing but honest, nothing but kind, and Clint...

He swallows hard, grabbing the clothes and pulling them on as quickly as his shaking hands allow. The material is soft, the pants with a loose drawstring and the shirt plain but for the stylized logo of some kind of bird over the shoulder. He tugs on the socks and slides his feet into the simple pair of sandals and struggles to shove away the little voice at his shoulder telling him he's wasted his chance at freedom.

He won't be the person Zemo was trying to make him into.

Clint shuffles his feet for a moment before clearing his throat awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Coulson turns around, offering him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Ready?"

Clint inhales a deep breath.

He nods.


End file.
